By the Count of Three (3)
by ThomE.Gemcity-06
Summary: Napoleon just wanted to expand his partner's palatial horizons, add some flavor to the Russian's bland cuisine, and it took three times before he learned his lesson... almost.
— **Disclaimer: I don't own The Man From U.N.C.L.E., but I like it anyways!**

 **Summary:** Napoleon just wanted to expand his partner's palatial horizons, add some flavour to the Russian's bland cuisine, and it took three times before he learned his lesson... almost.

 **Warning/spoilers: some swearing, and bodily funtions.**

 **The Man From U.N.C.L.E**

* * *

 **By the Count of Three (3)**

(1)

Illya had been sitting at the dining room table for nearly ninety-minutes since Napoleon had disappeared behind the two-way door that lead to the kitchen. He could immediately name a handful of things that he could be doing that were more productive, as well as more entertaining.

Illya huffed. "What is taking so long, Cowboy?"

"You can't rush perfection, Peril." Napoleon chided, but a moment later he backed out of the kitchen with two plates with stainless steel covers that were more of an indulgence than any use in the Russian's opinion. He placed one at the setting in front of Illya and the second in front of the empty chair across the table.

"It looks delicious." Illya deadpanned, staring down at the metal cover.

Napoleon rolled his eyes. "Of course, something as modern as a plate cover is a bewildering invention to a Russian."

Illya tapped it with his nail, and a _ting!_ resounded. "A waste of good metal." He said succinctly.

" _Voilà_!" Napoleon ignored him and lifted away the cover with flourish, presenting his masterpiece from the kitchen, waiting.

Illya looked down at the steaming dish. It smelled... different than what he was used to, but it wasn't an _un_ appetizing scent. But it looked like... "It looks like…" he sucked his lips, "Cat anus."

The only outward reaction the American showed was the single tremble in his hand as he set the plate cover on the table. "Cat anus." He said slowly.

" _Da_." Illya nodded, glad the man saw it as well. "Why you serve me cat anus? I thought we passed trying to kill each other, Cowboy."

"It's stuffed mushroom with risotto." Napoleon ground out smoothly. "I came across it during our last assignment and I wanted to try it out."

 _"Nyet._ " Illya shook his head. "Stick to what you know. I not eat cat anus." And he push the plate away from him with he tip of his finger.

Napoleon inhaled sharply. That was like a slap to the face to any respectable cook. He loved cooking _and_ he was good at it. It was like Gaby and her whisky, or Illya with his Chess. It was his home hobby, his pleasure. After the number the army rations did on him during his time in Europe and then his stint in prison, he swore that if he could help it, his tongue would only taste the finest food and finest drink. So whenever possible, he would cook and he would eat and he would enjoy. And he just wanted to share that enjoyment with his Russian partner; who's palate range was simply bland.

"You're not even going to have the courtesy to at least try it before you make assumptions? I spent hours going over the recipe to get it right."

"I know. I've been waiting here growing hungry—and you give me cat anus? _Nyet._ " He pushed the plate further away.

Napoleon's eye twitched. Another slap. Illya reached under the table for his bag and took out one of the leftover field rations that he still had. He popped the tab on the can and peeled back the lid.

Napoleon cringed at the discoloured condensed meat coated in a gelatinous slim. Illya might as well have taken the stainless steel plate cover from his rejected risotto and beat him over the head with it—it would have been less painful and insulting. Illya picked up the fork at the place mat next to the knife and spiked the canned mass.

Napoleon finally found his voice through his rising anger, strained. "You would rather have that processed sawdust and most likely _real_ cat anus, than this three-star dish that I have prepared—for you?!"

"Mm." Illya chewed. "Taste just like chicken."

Napoleon made a strangled sound. A red haze went over his eyes, that red that turned his infuriating partner Peril into the K.G.B. monster Red Peril. He didn't even fully realize he had reacted until he grabbed the knife in hand and the end stabbed into the table very near where Illya's arm rested on the edge of the table.

"Get out—before I pit this knife somewhere much more soft."

Illya looked at him unaffected and unimpressed with the American's display. "Whoa, Cowboy. You need to take care of that anger of yours before it becomes a problem."

"Speak for yourself!"

Illya pushed smoothly back in his chair and stood. "Goodnight." And he ate another irregular sized, pale chunk of mystery meat from the unlabeled can with an emphatic bite as he turned and left the pissed American's apartment for his own down that hall.

Napoleon yanked the knife from the table and fingered the chip now left in the otherwise dark polished wood. He cursed the Russian before he placed the knife back down gently and took the refused plate to his own seat at the table. He pushed in and settled down. He spread the cloth napkin across his lap and poured a glass of red wine. He took a sip, savouring the flavour before he turned with fork and knife in-hand and started on Illya's plate.

Of course, it wasn't as good as the one he had tasted in the small Italian restaurant and especially now that it was cold, but it was delicious nonetheless and paired perfectly with the wine he had chosen. That bastard didn't know what he was missing—and therein lie the problem.

He pushed the empty plate aside and pulled his own to the front. He wasn't that hungry right now, but he was pissed and that was a bad combination. He removed the plate cover and small haze of steam disappeared into the air. It was still heated—so not a waste of metal! He was impressed with himself that it had turned out so well on his first attempted execution.

He slowly cleared the plate and pushed it away from himself. He exhaled slowly and leaned back in his chair. He was decidedly full. Usually a single serving was his limit. He found that indulgence in things like food took away the specialty favour of the flavours, dulled you to them until they were simply ordinary.

He groaned softly, rubbing his extended stomach as it gurgled ominously. Maybe two plates of stuffed mushroom and risotto, and most of the bottle of wine as it turned out, was a bad choice. Eating angry never ended well for him.

Mind over matter.

He was not going to be sick, so his body had just better accept it. Illya was wrong. He was not going to prove the Russian right by being sick. It was the **amount** of food, _not_ the **quality** of food that was making him nauseous.

"No. Nope."

He shot from the chair and vaulted towards the bathroom. He threw the toilet lid up and hung his head and gagged—he felt queasy, but nothing came. His stomach sounded again, squeezing his intestines and too late he realized the mushroom intended to make an even less dignified exit. He barely managed to get his slacks down and on the toilet before the explosion of lava left his rear.

Almost an hour later, he exited the bathroom in a pitiful state. He was clammy and sweaty, crampy, exhausted, and his butt...—he drank two glasses of water before collapsing onto the couch, the closest distance to the bathroom.

God, that went through him faster than he thought possible. It was almost frightening.

Illya returned shortly after, the Russian didn't even have the decency to knock so Napoleon could tell him ever so beautifully to _fuck off_!

"Don't bite my head off, Cowboy." He called as he came. "I just came to get my bag." He stopped as he spotted Napoleon on the couch. "What happened to you?"

He glared at the blond through blue slits. "My disgust towards you manifested itself physically and turned me ill."

"Really..." Illya said slowly as he returned to the table to retrieve his bag. He saw the two empty plates with the dregs of the risotto sauce dried on them. "Because it looks to me you were poisoned by cat anus."

"Stop saying that!" Napoleon growled threateningly as the taller man came back around the couch, bag slung over his shoulder. "It was the **quantity** of food _not_ the **quality**. I am a professional."

"Whatever you say, Cowboy." Illya winked as he left, "Try not to eat anymore cat anus. It's bad for your complexion."

"It was stuffed mushroom!" He shouted at the closed door.

Illya poked his head back in, his eyes as amused as his tone. "Whatever makes you happy, Solo."

A book from the coffee table was hurled at him, but the door was already closed. Napoleon slumped back against the cushions, chest heaving.

The Russian was going to pay. For the insults and sarcasm and the indignity. He would show the blonde how wonderful his cooking was, but also exact his revenge. Napoleon swore on this. Revenge would be painful, a double-edge sword but—

His stomach gurgled again. "Not again!" he whimpered and stumbled to his feet. The bathroom door slammed. He didn't leave again until a good half-hour later, but now the planning could begin.

(2)

" _Bon_ _appétit_ _!"_ the flourish was still there as Napoleon relieved the single plate of its stainless steel cover.

Illya blinked dully, looking at what appeared to be a double-serving of Napoleon's infamous cat anus. He found himself in the same position he had been in a month before. He bit his tongue. He owed Napoleon and this was what the American wanted to pay his debt.

Napoleon from a month ago flashed before his eyes as he remembered the night; after consuming two servings of the stuffed mushroom and risotto. He had said: it was the **quantity** _not_ the **quality**. Illya didn't think that Napoleon would deliberately try to poison him by contaminating the food. Still, as he picked up the knife and fork from alongside the plate, the glint in Napoleon's blue eyes as he sat across the table could be misconstrued.

Illya cut a small piece of the c—stuffed mushroom and nudged on some of the saucy risotto and took a careful bite, chewing it slowly. It didn't taste like what he presumed cat anus might, and with Napoleon's encouragement as he continued to eat, he even sipped the red wine (when he only drank on special occasions, but he supposed eating Napoleon's cooking for the first time could count as such). It was delicious, though he would never cleanly say so.

Finally, he sat back, plate empty, he pushed it away. He was exceedingly full, but the food had been great, richer than what he was used to, but it was good.

"Not bad, Cowboy."

Napoleon smiled. "Thank you." It was genuinely said, because he could hear Illya's own sincerity in the compliment. He cleared away the dishes. Upon his return he asked the Russian if he wanted to stay for a round of Chess. Illya had agreed, always happy for an opponent that wasn't himself.

They moved to the living area next to the open dinning area. Illya claimed the armchair, and Napoleon the couch, the Chessboard claiming the corner of the coffee table.

They were just starting to make headway in the game—when Illya's stomach gurgled gently in the silence between them. His hand only paused briefly before he placed his Rook. He ignored it. But when he felt it again during Napoleon's move...

Napoleon heard it. He kept his eyes trained on the board and worked excruciatingly hard to keep his expression in an imitation of concentration instead of breaking out in a Cheshire grin. He had just wanted to shove the delicious "cat anus" in the Russian's impassive face—show him exactly the palate possibilities he was missing out on—to prove to him how amazing a cook he was. If nothing came of it, well then, the results would still be to his satisfaction (Illya had liked it). But if the Russian experienced the same results as Napoleon had—that would just make the spy's year.

It had been almost an hour and he was really starting to believe the palate of Russian cuisine had made Illya's stomach iron, made him impervious—and then he heard it, like angels singing!

Illya cracked his neck uncomfortably. He cleared his throat to cover the sound of his rebelling stomach. His brows furrowed as he stared at the board—but it was more an internal diagnostics than if he was figuring out his next move in the game.

"Feeling alright there, Peril?"

Illya looked up. There was too much mirth in the American's tone. It took him too long to realize—

He gagged and stood in surprise—too late. He turned and started to flee to the door, but stumbled before he was halfway there in horror—he would not make it to his apartment down the hall.

"Just behind you there, Peril." Napoleon pointed out helpfully. This was better than any beautiful mark that needed to be seduced.

Illya's deathly glare imparted no threat as he quickly spun on a socked-heels and dove into the bathroom behind him, slamming the door shut like a man evading a rain of bullets.

Napoleon bit into a throw pillow from the couch to muffle his laughter as he fell back onto the couch. His legs kicked with his gut splitting laughter as he heard the scattered curses coming from the bathroom, his toe catching the corner of the Chessboard and flipping it. Pieces scattered everywhere, but he could hardly be concerned—he had a little trouble breathing for all the laughter.

Half an hour later the bathroom door slowly opened and Illya stepped out the doorway. He was more composed than Napoleon had been; a bit sweaty and pale—tightlipped and pissed.

Napoleon was knelt on the rug, picking up the scattered Chesspieces. Though the LMFAO humour was gone, the comedy of the situation did not fade—at least for him.

"Make out okay?" he asked casually.

Illya swore at him in Russian and charged like an enraged bull. Napoleon quickly stood and met the blonde head-on. He grabbed Illya's arm and flipped the ill man. Illya went with no resistance and a grunt of impact. The American had been nice enough to flip him onto the couch at least.

Illya moaned. "You poisoned me, Cowboy."

Napoleon rolled his eyes. "Don't be so dramatic." He sat on the edge of the coffee table, the Chess game forgotten. "Frankly, I thought you were tougher than that." Illya growled. "Easy, don't work yourself up." He stood and returned shortly after with a glass of fizzing water. "Here."

Illya eyed it dubiously as he sat up.

"Don't be such a baby." Napoleon rolled his eyes again, pushing the glass into the man's hands. "It'll help with the..." he made a special gesture; frankly, he wish he'd thought of it when it was his turn before.

Illya guzzled it pretty quickly after that. Napoleon smiled. "So, was this punishment for, Cowboy?"

Napoleon set the empty glass down distinctly. "You called my cooking a cat anus and didn't even try it." He reminded him. "Partners are supposed to be more supportive than that."

"It does look like cat anus." Illya countered.

"Can we please stop calling it that?" Napoleon pleaded hopefully.

"I see no better name." He denied the other man. "And look at what happened when I ate it."

"Quantity not the quality." The dark-haired man ground out.

Illya scoffed. "And I'm supposed to take your word for it?"

"I'll cook again and you'll see—"

"Oh, no. I take pass." Illya stood, hands up and backing away.

Napoleon stood and countered the Russian's movements. "You can't take a pass!"

"I do—" he froze as his stomach gurgled. "You said drink would help!" a flash of betrayal went through his eyes before he spun on his heel and rushed right back into the bathroom, slamming the door and leaving a trail of Russian curses.

Napoleon chuckled delightfully. "Sure, Peril. You can pass if you ever make it out of my apartment and to your own."

"I will have my revenge, American." Came his muffled voice.

"Uh-huh." Napoleon put as much sarcasm into the expression of agreement as he was able as he went to the mini bar and poured himself a tumbler. He was sure that once Illya recovered there would be hell to pay, but right now it was glory days.

(3)

"How did we end up back here again?" Illya questioned, sitting at the same place, looking down at a steaming plate of cat anus.

"Look, it was the portion—" Napoleon started but then cut himself off with a shake of his head. "Just this last time and we'll know who was right. It's cooked the same with a regular-sized serving. Next time, I'll cook something different."

Illya huffed. "You're really pulling my leg here, Solo."

Napoleon's eyes gave a blue glint. "Well, if you're not up for it, Kuryakin..."

Illya narrowed his own Russian blues. "Don't insult me, Cowboy."

"Bottoms up!" He smirked.

The two men ate with determination, each bite taken with precision. The conversation amounted to zero. Despite the excellent flavours, they were on a mission.

Once they were finished, the dishes were cleared away and they took up their familiar places in the living area, the Chessboard between them taking the time. They made it through an entire game, for which of course Illya had beaten Napoleon to an inch of his life—before the dark-haired man himself hissed.

Illya's gaze pierced him as he paused in resetting the game and he raised a brow. "Cowboy?"

Napoleon looked sheepish. "Gas. It surprised me."

Illya's expression was absolutely stony. "You not cook for me again."

Napoleon gaped at him for a moment before he recovered. "We'll see."

"No see. Do."

"Alright." He smirked. "I will."

Illya glowered at him. "You not understand."

"Oh, I'm reading you pretty clear here, Peril." Napoleon winked.

"You are being ridiculous!" He threw up his hands in surrender. "Just no cat anus." He supposed he could allow the American this one concession, especially if he benefited from it himself in the long run.

"Hm." Napoleon paused to 'think' on it and Illya glared at him. "Alright. Alright." He smirked.

They resumed their fresh game. Three moves in... Illya blinked and Napoleon wrinkled his nose a minute later, but his expression was rather amused. "This is too good! I never thought I would see the day—you're more human than I thought." Illya's lips tightened uncomfortably and Napoleon laughed lightly at the expression. "Even Russian's fart, I guess. Who knew?" Illya went red at that, and Napoleon threw himself back onto the couch in gales of laughter.

Illya called him something dirty in Russian that just had him laughter even harder.

F

 **The Man From U.N.C.L.E**

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I had some pretty good fine writing this. ;p

y


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